The Mediterranean Squadron, that magnificent display of naval force that
is the guarantee of peace in Europe, after a week of gay festivities in
Leghorn, had sailed for Gaeta, while I, glad to escape from the glaring
heat, found myself back once more in dear old London.
One passes one's time in the south well enough in winter, but after a
year even the most ardent lover of Italy longs to return to his own
people, be it ever for so brief a space. Exile for a whole year in any
continental town is exile indeed; therefore, although I lived in Italy
for choice, I, like so many other Englishmen, always managed to spend a
month or two in summer in our temperate if much maligned climate.
London, the same dear, dusty old London, only perhaps more dear and more
dusty than ever, was my native city; hence I always spent a few weeks in
it, even though all the world might be absent in the country, or at the
seaside.
I had idled away a pleasant month up in Buxton, and from there had gone
north to the Lakes, and it was one hot evening in mid-August that I
found myself again in London, crossing St. James's Square from the
Sports Club, where I had dined, walking towards Pall Mall. Darkness had
just fallen, and there was that stifling oppression in the air that
fore-tokened a thunderstorm. The club was not gay with life and
merriment as it is in the season, for everyone was away, many of the
rooms were closed for re-decoration, and most of the furniture swathed
in linen.
I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a
friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a
voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian--
"Ah, signore!--why, actually, my padrone!"
And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in
neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who
had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to
better himself.
"Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You--in London--eh? Well, and how are you getting on?"
"Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling. "But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!"
"Where are you working?" I inquired.
"At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street--only a small place, but we
gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am
on my way home."
"I heard you married after you left me. Is that true?"
"Yes, signore. I married Armida, who was in your service when I first
entered it. You remember her? Ah, well!" he added, sighing. "Poor thing! I regret to say she is very ill indeed. She cannot stand your English climate. The doctor says she will die if she remains here. Yet what can I do? If we go back to Italy we shall only starve." And I saw that he was in deep distress, and that mention of his ailing wife had aroused within him bitter thoughts.
Olinto Santini walked back at my side in the direction of Trafalgar
Square, answering the questions I put to him. He had been a good, hard-working servant, and I was glad to see him again. When he left me he had gone as steward on one of the Anchor Line boats between Naples and New York, and that was the last I had heard of him until I found him there in London, a waiter at a second-rate restaurant.
When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it, and with a merry laugh said--
"I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something
for which I had been longing and longing?"
"Not at all."
"Well, the signore smokes our Tuscan cigars. I wonder if by chance you
have one? We cannot get them in London, you know."
I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of
those long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which
are so dear to the Tuscan palate. These I handed him, and he took them
with delight as the greatest delicacy I could have offered him. Poor
fellow! As an exiled Italian he clung to every little trifle that
reminded him of his own beloved country.
When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some
further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking
housemaid whom he had married.